Jak Barley, Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Dark Lords Conspiracy

Jak Barley, Private Inquisitor

and the Case of the Dark Lords Conspiracy

Dan Ehl

Published by Rogue Phoenix Press for Smashwords

Copyright © 2015

ISBN: 978-1-62420-094-6

Electronic rights reserved by Rogue Phoenix Press, all other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law. This is a work of fiction. People and locations, even those with real names, have been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.

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Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

Its purplish tongue darting out to test the fetid air of the narrow alley, the four-inch long jackal lizard wove an intricate course through the garbage strewn about the damp cobblestone. Disappearing for a heartbeat beneath a shattered herring barrel, the small hunter emerged to fling itself to a moss-swathed brick wall and scamper with its tiny talons to a windowsill. Red pupils expanded briefly at the sight of its quarry.

The slight, furtive figure was hastening down the shadowy back street, shoulders hunched while tightly grasping the hooded cape at her neck. She paused to look nervously over a shoulder. To her ears and jade green eyes, the lane was empty except for the scuttling of rats amidst the heaped garbage already picked over by street urchins and now awaiting the weekly patrol of rubbish trolls.

The lizard's quarry exited the alley onto a broader avenue lit by irregularly spaced gas lamps and the light seeping out from around the shades and curtains of the neighborhood's cramped warrens. She paused again to squint up and down the street as if trying to penetrate the shadows that clung to the myriad doorways and small courtyard gates.

Nervously licking her lips, the hooded figure rushed up a flight of worn stone steps to a narrow, thick door also partially hidden by the shadows. It appeared a sinister black, but on a sunny day the entrance was a festive red trimmed in green.

The jackal lizard had only two things in common with the door. By night the creature appeared black and if it ever ventured into the clean light of day, it would prove to be red. It wasn't a festive crimson, but more the scarlet of a seeping, broken blister. Its job completed, the tiny reptile turned to retrace its evening journey.

One hour later, another hooded figure emerged from the alley. Instead of the panicky air of the early walker, this cowled form strode with boldness through the gathering fog. A gas lamp momentarily illuminated the gaunt features of the stranger. An observer might be startled by the freezing grey eyes or arrogant, thin lips. But what would first draw any eyes was the black tattoo of a lizard across the shadowy figure's forehead. Or at least it first appeared a tattoo – until a closer look would reveal the image to actually be restlessly shifting and stirring.

Minutes later, there was a startled shriek from behind the red and green door – to be followed by a tormented, drawn-out cry that sent everyone in earshot scrambling to check the locks on their doors and windows. The hooded figure left as arrogantly as he had arrived.

This scenario was to be replayed several times within the next three weeks in the city of Duburoake.

On the fourth venture, the jackal lizard was agilely darting among the feet of the unwary as it traversed a busy avenue in pursuit of a maiden barely out of childhood. The long cape failed to hide her slim figure and lustrous red hair spilling out from beneath her hood. The young woman muttered occasional apologies when she inadvertently collided with others in her anxious haste to get home.

The jackal lizard leaped a street curb and dashed beneath a cluster of outdoor tables, stools, and the thickly booted feet of the patrons of the King's Wart Inn. It paused to flick its purple tongue for traces of its prey's scent when a looming shadow descended to bring a blackness harsher than any gaslight shadow.

~ * ~

By the dozen teats of the goddess Gendra, you almost spilled my ale, I yelped in admonishment as I grabbed for the teetering stein. Lorenzo Spasm had violently shoved the scuffed wooden table aside and brought his heel firmly down upon the ale garden's flagstone. Somewhere off in the crowd of celebrants for the St. Drubel's parade a strangled scream erupted above the din. I watched as Lorenzo lifted his boot to reveal the squished remnants of what appeared to be a small, red lizard.

Nice going, I admonished my friend. You just stomped some harmless creature seeking nothing more than to eat one of the numerous cockroaches that plague the King's Wart Inn.

Lorenzo ignored my reproach to stare intently at the remains. I glanced to my half-brother, Olmsted Aunderthorn, to see that he was also closely observing the deceased lizard.

I took another sip of the cellar-cooled ale. I guess we could call Tem Rouster. He collects road kills, dries them, soaks them in cheap cologne, and sells them to cab drivers to hang in their coaches as air flavorer to ward off the scents of his more malodorous patrons. Now that I think of it, such a fragranced bauble would not be a bad thought in this establishment's water closet.

Both of my friends ignored my witty banter.

What? I asked in puzzlement.

That be a jackal lizard, Jak, Olmsted answered.

Even in my slight ale buzz, his reply brought me up on my stool. A jackal lizard, here?

Lorenzo stood and peered into the crowd of drunken revelers. The street was lit by numerous torches installed just for the evening festival. Olmsted and I followed suit. Where there was a jackal lizard, there was bound to be a Westian Lizard Wizard. My friend abruptly waded into the throng.

The significance of the dead lizard and the earlier shriek finally sank in. Westian Lizard Wizards were notorious for blending their evil arts with those of assassins. Talk on the street was that one was in Duburoake plying his nefarious trade. A recent spate of mutilated corpses seemed to back up the conjecture.

I hurried to catch up with my friend, though following him in the densely packed mob wasn't easy. Drubel was the patron saint of brewers, which not only made him one of the more popular holy figures, but his devotees a rather raucous bunch. I emerged into a gap in the crowd – it was created by the celebrants frantically backing away from a wildly swaying figure.

I had never seen a Westian Lizard Wizard in real life, but there was no mistaking the cowled figure for a black order of necromancers. Across the brow of the mage was the lizard shaped indentation, now missing its customary passenger. The Lizard Wizards were the only magicians to carry their familiars in such a novel manner.

Judging by the muffled screams and curses emanating from the warlock, the death of his cold-blooded companion was extremely excruciating. He was pressing the heels of his hands into his temples. Thin rivulets of blood seeped from where he had raked his long, dirty nails across his cheeks.

The deranged mage froze in his pose of anguish to glare intently at Lorenzo.

You! the wizard shrieked at my friend. You are the one who killed my lizard.

While other observers of the mini-drama pressed even farther away from the crazed wizard, Lorenzo calmly stood his ground and responded, We're going to make the little bastard into an air flavorer.

The wizard gritted his teeth and drew in a ragged breath. What? he asked in bewilderment, as if Lorenzo had just told him that wet birds do not fly at night.

I'm afraid all those splintered little bones would make it unfit to eat, so we're going to dry it, soak the flattened carcass in cheap cologne, and hang it in the water closet at the King's Wart Inn to ward off the lingering odor of urine.

The mage's mouth spasmed several times before releasing another horrendous shriek. He pulled a hand from his head to thrust his arm toward my friend. This caused a further panic among the revelers. I similarly retreated. No one wanted to be around wizards when they were pointing fingers. It was not only impolite, but deadly.

A leap of greenish light erupted from the mage's hand to sizzle across the small gap to my friend. I instinctively clasped my hands over my eyes. Even then, a searing light seemed to pierce my eyeballs. There were agonized screams from those in the crowd who had not reacted as quickly as I.

Olmsted and I were probably the only ones at the scene who were not surprised when the greasy black smoke finally cleared. Instead of my friend being reduced to what would look like a forgotten stew over a cooking fire, it was the Lizard Wizard. The conjurer was now just a smoldering heap of rags and bubbling grease accompanied by the stench of burned hair.

A similar scene had played out upon my first meeting of Lorenzo during a past trip to the capital of Glavendale. Olmsted, my half-sister, Jennair, and I had stopped at hostel in Kaiserhelm before going on through the mountains. Spasm had occupied a room down the hall and answered his door to a Ghennison Viper Mage.

I remembered that first meeting very vividly. I had looked out my door standing bare foot, hair mussed, and mouth agape. Just several yards from me had stood a Ghennison Viper Mage and two Glavendale warriors, all now turned to my door and staring in serious displeasure. Even without the conical hat, the wizard was tall. He had an unhealthy yellow complexion like that of a fading bruise, and a reek of mold and dank caverns. A guard looked as if he were about to bark a rebuke when the door they had been beating flew open.

What the…?

I assumed the ominous trio elicited such responses wherever they went. I looked at my neighbor with pity. He stood in a state comparable to my own; that of obviously having just risen from bed. I guessed him to be middle aged, with dark hair to his shoulders and a mustache streaked with gray that hung almost to his chin. Olmsted was hoarsely begging me to shut the door.

The wizard gave my neighbor but a brief glance and said scornfully, This wretch is not whom we seek.

Who, dunghead, do you think you're calling a wretch, Lorenzo had grumpily answered in an unfamiliar accent. You have a lot of insolence calling anyone a wretch, dressed in that clown getup.

It was not an expected reply. I involuntarily retreated a step into my room, but couldn't completely tear myself from the unfolding drama. The King's men looked outraged then fearful as they turned to see how their companion was reacting – which wasn't good. Ghennison Viper Mages were known for their arrogance, evil tempers, and as loathsome students of the black arts. This was too often an unfortunate combination of personality traits and talents for those who came under the scrutiny of the notorious magicians.

The wizard's eyes erupted into burning coals as if fanned by the insolence. He reached out with a finger that more closely resembled a bird claw, but it came to an abrupt halt as my foolish neighbor seized the mage's wrist.

Beat it, Bozo, and take your two girly boys with you. I'm trying to get some sleep.

An ear-splitting shriek erupted from the wizard and he thrust his free hand at the foolhardy stranger while mouthing a fierce curse. I frantically closed my eyes and shoved the heels of my hands into my ears. It was dreadfully painful to hear the dead language of the even deader Xlantians spoken by a human tongue. The following discharge of light seared its way through my closed eyelids and sent me staggering against the doorframe. The hall was flooded with the stink of seared meat and hair.

I could hear my brother, Olmsted's lumbering tread behind me as I forced open my eyes. The hall was filled with noxious black fumes that made me lightheaded and stung my watering eyes. Strong hands gripped my arms and tried pulling me back into the room. I struggled reflexively and jerked free in time to see the smoke thinning. A greasy patch of charred cloth and crumbled bones lay on the hallway floor. It looked worse than the meals they call food at the King's Wart Inn.

Two frightened faces looked down at the incinerated mass and to each other. The King's guards were bewildered by the sight. Instead of the expected cremation of the stranger, it was the Ghennison Viper Mage who was blasted into ashes and oil.

My neighbor opened his mouth to speak. The soldiers fell over themselves to escape before he could utter a word and their footfalls could be heard pounding down the stairway well after they were out of sight. The amazing event had the opposite effect on me. I stood frozen in my doorway.

I could have warned the cretin, but he probably wouldn't have listened, said whom I was soon to know as Lorenzo Spasm in a matter-of-fact voice. I hope they clean the mess up before I leave in the morning. I hate looking at crap like that before breakfast.

W-what did you do? That was a Ghennison Viper Mage. They are invincible. Even the Lizard Wizards of Westian fear them.

The mightier they are, the faster they burn, the stranger replied solemnly as if imparting some great wisdom, then stepped back into his room and shut the door.

Olmsted had hesitantly craned his head out the door and gasped when he saw the stinking mass – greasy scraps in the muck still bubbling and smoking.

Amazing, my brother said in a husky voice. I have never heard of a Ghennison Viper Mage bested at his own trick.

I shoved him back into the room and bolted the door against the unpleasant reek.

It was later I learned that Lorenzo, a traveler not of this world, was immune to magic. All curses and spells rebounded upon those who cast them. And since that initial meeting, we have become stalwart comrades.

~ * ~

I now stared at the bubbling, loathsome slick on the cobblestones as several thoughts and emotions swirled about my slightly inebriated brain. Damn, Lorenzo, I cannot take you anywhere. We are supposed to be celebrating tonight and now you had to go and slay a Lizard Wizard.

Lorenzo did appear taken aback. He fingered his mustache and shook his head as if pondering his impetuous behavior. I knew it was an act. Though some of my friend's actions may at first have appeared impulsive, they had always played true.

It's probably too late to say I'm sorry, he finally spoke.

I looked down at the foul remnants. At least to him.

I guess there is nothing else to do but down an ale in his memory.

The least we can do, I agreed, cheering up at the thought. Come on, Olmsted, you do not want to be standing here when the Baron's guardsmen arrive.

My brother is an alchemist by trade and a damned good one. Such abnormal occurrences as this pique his alchemistic curiosity. But as they say, Inquisitiveness killed the rat – a saying my trade finds annoying.

Those still in the immediate vicinity parted before the three of us as if we were a cadaver wagon burdened with leprous corpses.

I was slightly cheered to see none of the usual roguish patrons of the King's Wart Inn had pilfered my ale. Lorenzo ordered another round.

You seem awful skittish, Master Jak Barley, Lorenzo observed as I emptied my stein. One would think a ferret would be more hard-boiled when it comes to the simple demise of a rather obnoxious spell slinger.

That be private inquisitor, I replied by reflex. 'Obnoxious' is a relative term. I would express it more as malevolent and treacherous. And that is the problem. I do not wish such occurrences to become customary. I have had enough adventurous encounters to last me a lifetime. I am ready to settle down and follow errant husbands or solve petty thefts.

When beginning my career as a private inquisitor, I dreamed of romantic exploits. But after the last couple cases that involved being the target of lethal Reverian Assassins and malevolent Ghennison Viper Mages, I was ready for some down time.

Still, the latest venture had its benefits. I was now known as the private inquisitor who had brought down the malevolent temple of Dorga, the Fish Headed God of Death, while surviving the onslaught of some of the nastiest assassins and mages known to the Western Realms.

This newly gained prominence appeared to be placing my services in high demand among the more prosperous merchants and guildmeisters of Duburoake – a change from past clients who were normally as empty-pocketed as myself. I had just finished several easy cases and was now able to charge what I considered exorbitant fees. I almost went into paroxysms when I first heard my secretary, Osyani, relate my new charges to a potential client.

My current loitering at the King's Wart Inn was actually for a business meeting with hopefully another such prosperous client.

I noticed several of the ever-present bar flies at the tavern had met their ale consumption limits. They were lying on their backs with feet straight up in the air. I swept them off the table and then wiped my hand against my tunic. At least they were not buzzing so when passed out. During an exceptionally warm day, a low drone of the inebriated insects could fill the King's Wart Inn.

Can I have your mark? a voice inquired from behind my left shoulder.

I jerked and almost spilled my ale. My nerves had not yet quieted down. A winsome maiden of about 19 was eagerly thrusting a sheet of parchment in my face. She wore the blue garb of a scullery maid engaged at the Merry Sot Hostel just off the wharves. The attire was designed to reveal the curvatures of the servants and as much flesh as possible without raising the ire of the more priggish guests. I quickly recovered to smile nonchalantly at the girl.

One should never steal upon a Kimchee master like that, I rebuked her gently. Our reflexes are honed to where we often strike before thinking. The art of thumb fighting, though not as well known as some other martial arts, is one of the deadliest of fighting skills.

I heard a half cough, half moan from Olmsted and I turned to give him a quick scowl.

Oh, I am sorry, Master Barley. But I will be the envy of the other maids at the hostel if I can have your mark.

I glanced down at the foolscap she was holding to see that it was one of the recent articles by the scribe, Sergey Varvervane, who had chronicled some of my past exploits. Normally his rag related tales involving babes raised by savage chickens in the sewers of Duburoake, swine mutilations perpetrated by denizens of the moon, or reports that the deceased minstrel, Elfin Pulley, is really alive and flipping muskrat patties in a mineral springs spa.

At the bottom of the folio were advertisements for a balm to cure tongue grubs, a going-out-of business auction for a millinery shop, and a two-for-one sale at an unsavory sounding business called World of Whips.

Lorenzo withdrew a slim rod from a pocket and laid it before me. I looked quizzically at him.

She wants your autograph.

I looked down at the cylinder, still puzzled.

It's like a quill. Here, let me show you.

Lorenzo grasped it as if it were a knife he was about to plunge into the table. He depressed one end with his thumb, which was followed by a clicking noise. I took the supposed writing utensil and examined the unknown characters running down one side. It is the small things like this that bore out my friend's claim of being from a different world.

It reads, 'Joe's Tow and Tire Service.' But never mind that, just try it, Lorenzo urged me.

I used the edge of my sleeve to dry a spot on the table while with the other hand I took the offered parchment.

With a bold flourish, I wrote, To one of the most comely Merry Sot Hostel maids I have ever encountered, Jak Barley, private inquisitor.

The girl squealed and snatched the script from me before I could properly observe the results of Lorenzo's strange marker. She leaned over to give me a kiss on the forehead – close enough that her bosom loomed inches from my nose – quivering like two excited pups eager to break free of their nest. I worried that the overstrained corset might burst and put out one of my now crossed eyes.

Lorenzo watched her appreciatively as she walked away, then turned to me and said, Isn't love wonderful?

She is not your type; too intellectual, I answered, taking a deep breath. You need someone who is not easily prone to boredom.

I'm talking about you, Master Jak.

Not my sort either, I sighed as I peered down into my stein.

Maybe not now, he laughed. Not since meeting a certain young witch.

I looked up at Lorenzo, who, with a sardonic smile, shrugged his shoulders and began digging into a pocket within his jacket. He withdrew a small corked phial.

And if my cape was torn, would you also just happen to have…

Lorenzo flashed what I knew was intended to be a guileless smile and produced a needle and bobbin. I was tempted to continue, but I now had other things on my mind.

Olmsted watched in puzzlement as I carefully dripped some of my ale into the small glass container. His eyes shot up when I emptied the rest onto the flagstones.

What be that about? Olmsted asked, surprised to see his ne'r-do-well brother pouring what appeared to be a perfectly good brew on the ground.

You first, I offered Lorenzo.

He cocked his head and stared intently into the air. First, the shoes.

I nodded my head in affirmation. No maid on her feet all day would wear such footwear. Too high of heels, those pointed toes would soon cause blisters, and that custom wyvern leather is beyond a maid's earnings.

Yes, and no sign of floor wash stains. Your turn.

Her hands, I replied

Right, too smooth and the nails too long and unbroken for a scrubwoman, he agreed and then continued, The perfume.

Again, too posh for a scullery drudge, I answered. And one more thing.

I smiled, knowing I had one on him. Lorenzo raised his eyebrows in question. Her expensive silk lingerie, I contributed.

My friend smiled. I noticed your keen professional scrutiny of the maid's corset as she loomed above you.

As well as her spiking my ale. So much for my adoring public.

Olmsted's patience was wearing thin. The lass poisoned your drink. Jak? She be not a maid at the Merry Sot Hostel?

The lass is definitely not a charlady. As for poisoning me, that is for you discover. You are the alchemist.

I handed over the phial and Olmsted held it up for a quick examination. I will test this when I return to the laboratory.

Fame was a double-edged dirk. I now had the money up front to pay my brother's laboratory fees, but I would not have needed his analysis this time if I were still a private inquisitor of little note. Which brought up the next question – why would anyone want to foul my ale?

Are not you going to follow the maiden? Olmsted asked in a exasperated voice as he watched me silently studying the squiggles I was making in the wet spots on the table.

I am sure I will be able to trace her once I describe the girl's singular taste in apparel to Jennair.

Jennair is a half-sibling like Olmsted and works in a millinery shop – though they sell more than hats. She would be able to tell me where such garb could be purchased.

There was a tint of blush to Jennair's cheeks missing from the pale full-blooded Frajan maids, a heritage from our father. It was because of our kinship that the Frajan community let me keep my loft and office. Most native Duburoakians gradually moved from my neighborhood to other parts of the city as the parochial Frajan immigrants moved in. Their cliquishness commonly translated into downright rudeness to those not Frajan.

I liked Frajans, but they acted as if they had icicles up their arses. They remained behind an imperturbable facade, an aloof nature that set them apart from the rest of the more demonstrative Duburoakians such as myself. That my father had been able to seduce a Frajan maid spoke more of his prowess than any other conquest.

Father might not have been a very good parental figure for his numerous offspring – a downright miserable one since he did not remain to see even one of his many scions actually birthed – but he did leave behind an expansive network of kinship for his whelps that transcended the usual social and economic barriers of a provincial capital like Duburoake. He was impartial when it came to pretty women, whether they be scullery maid or duke's daughter.

Many believed he fled to a far realm to ply his talent among a less suspecting populace. It was only during my last adventure in Stagsford, capital of the kingdom of Glavendale, that I discovered who our real father was: the Baron Garsten Stee Hragen, now the King of Glavendale. In other principalities, such birthings as at this table might be of some import, but given the formidable proclivity of our father's youthful indulgences, it mattered little. So we all kept silent on the riddle of our siring.

I liked to believe that my fleeting time with Garsten through a rather perilous ordeal did endear me to him. But it was a card I preferred not to play unless faced with the direst of dangers.

Rat turds! Just as I am getting used to a tranquil life as a prosperous private inquisitor, someone is again trying to kill me, I complained.

Ah, that be a point, laughed Olmsted. The raucous brother I once knew would have been on that young maid like carrion maggots on a vivisected marmot. That was until you met the witch's daughter.

I eyed Olmsted over my ale. You alchemists have such poetic ways with words. Remind me to come to you the next time I want to write a love sonnet to Morgana.

Of course he was right. I could barely believe it myself. I was a befuddled mess since meeting Morgana during an earlier case. It would have been much simpler if her magical talents had remained buried, even though their surprise emergence saved our lives from the gathering body parts of the dismembered Dorga, the Fish Headed God of Death. I caught myself once again wishing she were here instead of studying hexes or whatever witches were supposed to learn. Her mother, the infamous witch, Morganna – two Ns in her name – had demanded her daughter take such classes in return for not converting the young witch's suitor into a toad.

In the older witch's eyes, I left a lot to be desired as a future son-in-law. But I was now left wondering if Morgana, the witch-in-training, saw less of a future with a private inquisitor than Morgana, the simple witch's daughter. Was she even now being wooed by some silver-tongued sorcerer?

Maybe some of the old Jak remains. Are you really here to meet a client or be that an excuse to patronize the King's Wart Inn? Olmsted asked.

I straightened in my chair and attempted to give my hunchbacked brother a haughty stare as I replied, I received a note this morning to meet with a prospective client. I should be indignant over such a crass remark. You are speaking to a newly appointed member of the venerable Duburoake Council of Professional Private Inquisitors.

Olmsted smiled at the comment, as did Lorenzo. Until my sudden rise to fame, I had disdained the council as a gaggle of senile imbeciles incapable of finding a missing stocking. They in turn, when they even bothered to acknowledge my standing as a private inquisitor, had looked upon me with scorn.

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a hooded figure. It took all of my self-control not to bound from my seat and drop into a Kimchee on-guard stance. The person was obviously a wizard. Though not a very imposing one, I observed once over my shock. His garb was a drab brown robe that had seen better days. The sleeves were frayed and the hem splashed with dried mud. Several writing quills were nestled in a pouch guardian beneath his left shoulder. I am of middling height and the pointed top of his hood barely reached my chin. A pale, thin face peered at me from within the shadow of his hood. His chin sported a week's growth of graying stubble and his eyes appeared bloodshot and watery.

I took a breath and waited for him to speak, giving me more time to inspect our caller. My run-ins with mages have not been amiable and I was afraid that my expression was not one of welcome. He nervously ran his thumbs down the front of his garb as if to scrape off the soup stains adorning his robe, giving me the chance to observe a thick gold ring set off by a large burgundy gem of simple cut. From that brief glimpse, I was able to discern what appeared to be a twisting dragon circling the stone.

Lorenzo pushed back his chair, grabbed another from a nearby table and slid it to our own. I sent him an annoyed glance. He returned it with one of his maddening innocent smiles. On any occasion, I did not enjoy the company of wizards and certainly not now when I was expecting a paying patron.

The mage looked down at the chair and paused as if unsure that the offered chair was an invitation.

You be Master Barley, the private inquisitor?

At least he had not called me a ferret.

I sighed and waved to the chair. I am. Can I be of service to you? I asked, hoping I could not.

He sat and suddenly seemed to deflate as if completely exhausted and it had taken the last of his reserve just to make it to our table. My name is Beammond. I hope you can. I sent you the note. I be truthfully in need of your assistance.

I was just as startled by the wizard's announcement as I was by his unexpected appearance. I realized my mouth had dropped open and firmly closed it.

I decided to be candid in my bafflement. Ah, you are in need of a private inquisitor? I, ah, forgive me if I appear at a loss, but what could a wizard need of my services?

Wizards needed no aid from ordinary folk unless it was just as laboratory specimens required for the testing of some toxic new hex. He smiled weakly and eyed our mugs before glancing about the ale garden for a serving lad. Fat chance that would happen. The craven help had vanished like sheep at the shadow of a piss dragon. Some of the other patrons were trying to nonchalantly make their own escapes. The tavern owner would not appreciate me being the cause of a mass flight of paying customers during one of the busier days of the year.

Let me fetch you a drink from the bar, Lorenzo offered.

I pondered dark thoughts at his retreating figure. The only one among us impervious to magic and he was leaving us alone with a possible homicidal necromancer.

Despite what you may have heard, not all of us wizards be bloodthirsty fiends, the mage spoke as if reading my thoughts. "Most of us are content to remain in our libraries contemplating ancient manuscripts and writing our own dissertations to further the knowledge of magic. It is the